


All About Assholes

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Crack, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bail has a prostate exam, and Padmé is insensitive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All About Assholes

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a birthday fic for queenhandmaidensenator over on Tumblr (and by extension, a gift!fic for everyone else)! This was heavily inspired, firstly, by an RP I did on Tumblr with **patientalien** , and then the fic came into existence when **citizenjess** suggested it. (Title is also thanks to her!) Bail took a few levels in Drunkmé this fic, I think. Tion Marcene is an original character of my own creation, so you won't find him on Wookieepedia - all you need to know is that he's Breha's personal Healer. ;) Hope you manage to get a chuckle out of it!

For the most part, Bail does care about his wife dearly: as far as women go, Breha is beautiful and smart and kind and all of that stuff that makes her a bloody good Queen for Alderaan, and he’s fairly sure that no other wife would let him get away with his ~special friendship with Obi-Wan.

That said, he thinks she has an appalling taste in friends and personal Healers.

Tion Marcene’s fingers are firm and long, steady with experience and are, in general, very nice, and Bail is sure he’d appreciate the man’s fingers a lot more if they weren’t currently inside his anus and probing for his prostate.

The lead-up to the present circumstance had been just as awful; Breha’s visit meant, of course, that she’d brought Marcene along with her, and since she and her hack Healer were on Coruscant for the week then Bail ‘might as well’ get a full physical.

“I can get one from the local med centre,” Bail had tried, but Breha was insistent.

“Tion is one of the best Healers there is, Bail,” she’d said. Privately Bail thought she was exaggerating the man’s prowess – how good can Marcene even  _be_  when he’s blacklisted from thirteen hospitals on Alderaan? – but he didn’t get a chance to negotiate because Breha pulled the “He Saved My Life” card and in his guilt Bail agreed. Very unwillingly.

Hence, the full physical. Which Marcene apparently interpreted as  _full_ -full, and he decided to wrap up the exam by asking how long it had been since something other than Obi-Wan’s cock examined his prostate.

“You’re kriffing kidding me!” Bail had yelped, and had to physically restrain himself from slapping his hands over his ass as though to protect it. In truth, it’s been a while since either – he hasn’t had an exam in about five years and Obi-Wan’s been fighting in the war for the last three months.

“Breha said a full check up. If you don’t drop your pants and turn around, I’ll tell her all about your drinking problem.”

Disappointing Breha and having her question his ability to do his duty was out of the question – and that wasn’t even going into how his wife for some reason always sided with Marcene on everything these days.

_(“Bail, put the brass knuckles away, please.”_

_“They’re for my own protection! And – besides, you saw Marcene grinding fast-acting laxatives into my dinner last time and you didn’t tell_ him _to stop it!”_

_“Well, yes, but Tion explained you hadn’t been to the bathroom in three days and that it really was for your own good.”)_

He suspected the reason she didn’t take Bail’s side anymore was because they didn’t have sex so much anymore (and Marcene had somehow convinced her that he could walk on water) but that was beside the point. He didn’t want any more reasons for Breha to side with Marcene, so Bail gritted his teeth and dropped his pants while the Healer snapped on his gloves and applied lubricant to his right index finger. “Get on with it, then,” Bail had said.

"Well, I’m trying, but this would be a lot easier and faster for both of us if you unclenched, Organa."

Bail gritted his teeth again. “I  _am_  ‘unclenched’.”

"Trust me, you’re really not. Like for some reason I just  _assumed_  Kenobi’s cock was big, but judging from what I’m seeing –”

"That is  _really_  inappropriate, Marcene –”

“– unless  _you’re_  the top, are you?”

"Oh, go fuck yourself with your stethosc _oooohhhpe son of a Sith whore!_ ”

"No, that would be unhygienic." Marcene had sounded entirely too smug and unprofessional for Bail’s liking. He’s actually  _toying_  with him, Bail realises as he’s bent over with a finger that doesn’t belong to Obi-Wan Kenobi up his anus and probing for his prostate.

It’s very hard to concentrate on anything else, much as he tries. Marcene’s finger locates his prostate after what seems like forever (it was really just five seconds) and the sensation is both familiar and entirely unwanted. Obi-Wan’s finger (and cock) is one thing; this is quite another and he’s not enjoying this at all.

Marcene is talking above him – something about ‘swollen’ and ‘can’t tell if it’s a proper concern or if Kenobi’s just been giving you a pounding’ and ‘have you had trouble getting it up’, and –

“What?” Bail yelps, the words registering. “No!” He pauses. “Only… just sometimes,” he finally admits, face flaming and his mouth twisting into an expression of distaste. But it’s not a big deal because it happens to everyone, even Obi-Wan, and it’s not a problem. “It’s none of your fracking business, anyway.”

Marcene snorts. “All right. But word of advice, if you don’t want any, uh, performance mishaps, you might want to cut back on your drinking.”

His finger is  _still_  up his anus, pressing around – and to Bail’s absolute horror, the gentle probing on his prostate sends a twinge of unintentional arousal through him, and his cock twitches slightly in response.

_Force, no_ , he beseeches silently, but it’s too late: the thoughts of Obi-Wan in combination with the talk of erections and the pressure on his prostate makes blood rush down to his cock with that last probe, and as soon as Marcene withdraws his finger and snaps off his gloves, Bail jumps away and yanks his pants up over a raging erection.

_Please don’t have noticed, please don’t have noticed, please don’t have noticed_  –

Bail risks a glance over his shoulder, heart hammering, and Marcene hasn’t noticed. He’s turned away, still talking about PSAs and levels and something about a course of medication to bring them down, and Bail seizes the opportunity to lunge for the door, twisting the handle. It doesn’t budge, and Marcene snorts behind him.

“You locked me in?” Bail says incredulously, and Marcene just snorts again and shakes his head.

“Come on, Organa, I thought we were having a moment, it’s only polite stay behind for pillow talk.”

Bail scowls at him and tries to adjust his cape over his crotch so that Marcene won’t notice.

“…so just cut back a little and stop acting like a teenager – seriously, it’s not a good look on men our age, Organa, you don’t need to make yourself look like more of a wanker than you already are– what’s wrong with your face?”

“Nothing,” Bail grits out.

“You look constipated.”

“I just had your finger up my ass, of course I look constipated.”

Marcene stops his retort (“Perhaps you need a prescription for l–”) and stares at Bail’s pinched, flushed face, then the way he’s hunched over and using his cape to cover his still-aching erection, then back up to Bail’s pained eyes, and Bail knows he’s worked it out. Marcene leans back, crosses his arms, and actually  _smirks_. “Why, Senator, I’m flattered.”

“Oh, fuck you, Marcene!” Bail snaps before he can think of a better insult.

“Eh, thanks, but you’re not really my type –”

Bail lunges for the door again. “Unlock the door and let me out.”

Marcene actually  _laughs_. “It’s not locked,” he says. “You were just turning the handle the wrong way –”

Bail yanks the door open so hard he things it almost comes off its hinges and storms out.

“Do you want a semen specimen bottle?” Marcene calls out after him – the asshole is  _still kriffing laughing_  – and Bail slams the door hard behind him.

 

* * *

 

So of course he’s in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Out of pure spite for Marcene, Bail intentionally doesn’t jerk off or find a cold shower – he goes straight to his liquor cabinet and drinks three glasses of brandy until his erection goes down on its own. The rest of the hour is spent swearing, and the rest of the day is spent in an aggravated combination of sexual frustration and mortification and anger at Breha’s asshole of a Healer.

He only attends a few meetings and entirely skips the Senate sessions, ends up – as always – in Padmé’s apartment in the evening with a few bottles of champagne and his favoured whiskey brand in hand. When he finally slumps down into the couch beside her – having been on his feet all day – he realises what Marcene was talking about when he said Bail was ‘clenching’, because the sensation of Marcene’s finger stimulating his prostate twangs and Bail lets out a curse.

Padmé isn’t so trashed yet as to not notice. “Didn’t know Obi-Wan was on Coruscant,” she says vaguely, lifting her champagne glass – it’s empty – to her lips.

“He’s not,” Bail grumbles.

“ _Bail_ ,” Padmé gasps with a giggle, and he realises too late what she thinks is being implied.

“No, it’s not like that!” he snaps, shifting uncomfortable on the couch. The brandy has loosened his tongue, so he pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters, “I had a prostate exam today, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Padmé says, not comprehending. Then, “Oh!” and she giggles again, sliding her flute back onto the table unsteadily. “Rough?”

Actually, no, and that’s what makes this so damn embarrassing. Marcene had been very gentle and suspiciously good at stimulating it. But for saving face and because he’s still in a foul mood and Marcene doesn’t deserve to be spoken of in good terms  _ever_ , Bail snaps, “Yeah,” and crosses his arms tightly and adds, “The man hates me, he did it on purpose.” He must have done. There’s no other explanation.

“Oh,” she says again. “Oho, this is… this the Healer that… Breha likes? The one that hates you an’ you hate him? Why’d you go to  _him?_ ”

“I didn’t  _go_  to him, Breha  _made_  me get it checked.”

Padmé giggles again, reaching for the bottle of champagne now and lifting it to her lips. “I never thought she was into  _that_  sort of stuff.”

“She’s not!” Bail snaps again, but then reconsiders because for all their years of marriage he doesn’t actually  _know_  what Breha’s kinks are, or if she even has any. “And it wasn’t like that!”

“So how  _was_  it like, then?” Padmé sing-songs. “Didja get hard or something?”

Bail fumes in stony silence. “No,” he grumbles, but Padmé is staring at him and he really shouldn’t have expected her present tipsiness would get in the way of how well she knows it when he lies. She waits for a second, then shrieks with laughter and slides off the couch, landing on the ground with a ‘thump’ and unsteadily waving the bottle around. “Oh Force,” she gasps, “you got – you an erec- ecre – you got  _hard!_ ”

“And you’re drunk off your ass!”

Padmé laughs as she lifts the bottle to her lips again, but ends up spraying the liquid all over her shimmering blue dress because she can’t stop laughing long enough to drink it.

“Well I’m glad you think it’s funny,” Bail grumbles, and reaches for his brandy again.

 

* * *

 

Somewhere along the way to getting completely and utterly sloshed, Padmé suggests getting revenge on Marcene. “You shud – you should –  _hic!_  – give ‘im a piece o’ your  _mind_ ,” she declares, staggering around and towards the door, dragging Bail by the hand. Her shoes are left behind on the couch and Bail’s cape has been dropped where as well.

It’s a fantastic idea, Bail thinks, draining the last of the champagne bottle. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I  _should_.”

The world is tilting pretty dangerously around him but he still manages to stagger – with Padmé in tow – all the way to Breha’s apartment. He doesn’t question that Marcene might _not_  be there – where else would he be staying except the guest room with the Queen of bloody Alderaan? – and he ends up hammering on the door because his fingers won’t hit the passcode buttons without slipping and he doesn’t even know the passcode anyway.

“Marcene!” he yells as Padmé spins gleefully behind him. “Marcene, get – get outta there an’ face me, I wanna  _talk_  to you ‘bout – about –”

Actually he doesn’t know what about anymore. Something about erections, but it still seems like a good idea. Bail smacks on the door again – “Marcene!” – and the door suddenly slides open and Bail topples through, landing on his face on the carpet only a few inches away from bare feet which are attached to bare legs. Masculine bare legs. Bail risks a glance up, his vision coming in and out of focus, and realises Marcene is wearing a bathrobe. A white bathrobe. And isn’t wearing anything underneath.

“Look, I know I said we shared a moment and all, but I wasn’t lying when I said you’re not my type.”

Bail shakes his head and clambers to his feet unsteadily, and digs a finger into Marcene’s chest. “Now see here you kriffin’ jerk –”

“Fuck, you  _stink_ , Organa. I swear to whatever power is out there, if you throw up on me, you will find yourself waking up in a bathtub of ice missing a kidn–”

“Tion, what’s going on, who –” That’s Breha’s voice. Bail tries to push past Marcene to see his wife, who is standing in the hallway with damp hair and flushed skin and looking as beautiful as ever in – in a – in a  _bathrobe._  And yeah, he can’t focus very well at the moment but he’s pretty sure she’s not wearing anything underneath it either, and – “Bail?” She says incredulously.

“Wha- wha-” Bail splutters, staring between the two of them. “You – and him – and you’re not –  _Brehaaa –?_ ”

“Want me to call security on him?” Marcene drawls.

“You shut your fucking  _face_ , Marcene –” Bail snaps, reeling his fist back, but his punch ends up nowhere near Marcene’s face and he just finds himself on the floor again. Vaguely he can hear Padmé gasping and hiccupping outside, taking another swig from the almost-empty bottle. “Breha. Breha you’re not – please tell me you’re not –”

He hears her sigh, and she walks over to kneel beside him, pressing down on her robe so it doesn’t lift up and flash him her privates. “It was just a gynaecological exam, Bail, that’s all.”

Marcene snorts. “Yeah, because you haven’t given her one since –”

“ _Fuck you, Marcene_  –”

“Bail, that’s enough!”

“But he started it!  _He gave me an erection!_ ” Bail moans, clutching his stomach which is churning really grossly at the moment, and outside he hears Padmé fall to the ground with another shrieking laugh. Breha sighs and Marcene, the cock, just snorts again, so Bail pulls himself to his knees and vomits over Marcene’s feet.

“ _What the actual fucking fuck, you sack of shit –!_ ”

“That’s for –  _prostate_ ,” Bail spits, and passes out.


End file.
